All Dolled Up
By Andrew J. Mellon

Becky Case raised her long arm into the air, beckoning the oncoming cab to pick her up, panting breaths of smoky condensation into the cool morning air. Her rumpled black evening dress was little comfort against the chill. She didn’t care. Nights with Bruce were always so exhilarating. That was what she was thinking about.

The cab slowed to a stop and she quickly slid inside.

“1 West 72d Street” She said absently as she fingered through her purse.

She sniffed. She smelt something; she smelt something bad, like goats, except goats that smoked cigarettes. For the first time she realized someone was beside her. She jerked back in surprise as a grin of yellowed teeth greeted her.

“Excuse me!” She said with no little irritation. She banged on the glass separating the driver from the passengers. “Driver, stop! I said stop!” The driver was oblivious to her protests. Becky backed into her corner of the cab as she nervously looked over the thin man dressed in black, leering at her. She tried to show she was not afraid of him.

“I’m sorry, I had no idea that this cab was taken.”

It was an apology waxed with irritation.

The man laughed.

“It is taken and so are you.”

Becky gave the man a confused look and then started to finger the door handle, ready to pop out and run when the cab paused next. The man noticed and patted Becky on her knee, causing her to jump.

“Don’t try it, doll. You’re not going nowhere. The door is locked. My name is Devlin, Adam Devlin.”

Fearful of his intent, Becky lunged at the man, prepared to dig her nails into his eye sockets. She froze mid way, faced forward, and placed her hands on her knees. Her body beyond her eyes were beyond her control. Her pupils darted around chaotically.

“A regular spitfire you are, doll.” Devlin told her. “Your husband did not tell me that. But then he was rather upset with you, cheating on him and all. You can talk now as long as you don’t scream, bitch or moan. It’s early and I don’t need the headache.”

“What?…how?” Becky gasped as the power of speech returned. Her body was still frozen, as still as a statute, and still facing forward. Her eyes strained to look at Devlin beside her; he was sucking on a cigarette and idly blew some smoke into the air.

“Not that I blame you, doll. He seems like a real dud. That’s what you get when you marry for money. I am what you get when you piss off somebody off with money.”

“Let me talk to Charles.” She pleaded “We can work this out. I made a mistake.”

“Ain’t that the truth, doll. I erase mistakes.”

“What are you going to do to me?” Becky cried, her voice becoming tinged with terror. “Please don’t hurt me. I’ll pay you more than what he is paying you!”

Devlin chuckled. “Did you ever see the `Good, the Bad and the Ugly’? What’s my favorite line from that? Something like, `Once I’m paid I always see the job through.’ Don’t worry though, I am not going to hurt you. That ain’t my style.”

The cab pulled up to Louie’s of Paris, the exotic clothier. In a mock display of chivalry, Devlin opened up Becky’s door, giving her a slight bow and then taking her hand as she exited. Her eyes still showed that her motion was not her own. A scantily clad wait person opened the store door, waving in the couple within. Becky noticed the women’s eyes were strangely vacant. Not a good sign, Becky told herself.

Devlin smiled at the party that greeted them: a rather fay and flamboyantly dressed man in front of six women dressed in form fitting clothes that looked akin to surgical scrubs, each bearing the saccharine sounding name of the individual: Vixen, Bunny, Babs, Kitty, Kimmy and Susie. Each had bright white smiles with curiously blank stares. The gazed as if they were looking beyond Devlin and Becky, toward some distant point.

“Oh Adam Darling.” Said the man addressing Devlin, drawing out each vowel to ostentatious length. “Wherever do you get these people, they are so delicious.”

“Louie,” Devlin said presenting his guest. “Allow me to introduce is Rebecca Case, former dancer--a pretty good one too; I saw her in “Cats”—now wife of eminent financier, Charles Wilson Case, IV. Ms. Case, the Louie of Louie’s of Paris.”

Louie took Becky’s hand kissed and then licked it.

“Hey!” Becky protested.

Louie smiled. “Ah, she is still in there I see.”

“Of course, Louie, she is a star and she is entitled to the treatment of a star.”

Louie smiled knowingly. “Aha. It’s been quite a while since we’ve done one of those. Can you unwrap the package so I can get a full look at her?”

“But of course.”

Becky was fuming at casual treatment; it was as if she were an animal or a thing. It was all she could do to stop herself from screaming obscenities at the two men, but she checked herself; she had no idea how Devlin could control her like he did, but she figured it would be better to cater to his whims for the moment. Suddenly she realized her body was in motion: she shrugged out of her loose fitting evening gown, letting it slip to the floor.

“I like a girl who doesn’t wear undergarments. They are so unnecessary.” Louie said contemplatively as he looked up and down Becky’s nude body.

“You don’t like girls period. Your loss."

Louie gave Devlin a knowing smile and snapped his fingers. “Girls, lets doll up Ms. Case.”

The six women circled Becky and directed her to a chair beneath a bowl. They leaned her back, so that her head was above the basin. One soaked, soaped and massaged her jet-black hair while the other tended to manicuring her fingernails and toenails.

“What, they are giving me a beauty treatment?” Becky told herself, “This crew was up to something; it might not be murder, but it was sure to be something unpleasant.

“Devlin,” Becky called out. “I mean it. Whatever Charles is paying you, I’ll pay you more. Take him out for me! I have a secret account of my own money and some I embezzled from him. There is a code number to access it that only I know.”

“You are such a naughty girl.” Came the reply in a sneer.

The women ushered Becky over to another chair, this one before a mirror. Louis stood behind her with a pair of scissors and began to clip away at her hair.

“Louie.” She hissed. “I’ll give you the code number if you help me get out of here. I’m talking a lot of money. A couple million. Its all yours. Just help me. Please!”

But Louie was concentrating on her hair, reducing it from shoulder length to just above the chin. With some gel and a blow drier, he curled out about half its new length. Then the girls took over again, fetching Becky and pulling her into a standing position. Five of them produced jars of a white cream that they scooped up with their hands and rubbed onto her body with a firm massaging motion. The sixth woman held a razor in her hands and a can of shaving cream. She put some foam on Becky’s crotch and began to scrape away her bush.

Becky’s eyes shot to the right and left and down as the prison of her body was being painted and shaved.

“Someone, anyone! Get help! I’ve got plenty of money! Just help!” She cried desperately. No one answered her pleas.

The girls dispersed again, leaving Becky to stare at herself, unblinking in a mirror. She was a ghostly, her figure the color of a blank sheet of paper. Her trim body, her full perky breasts, her thin waist and slight hips, her exposed vaginal mound, were all white as virginal snow. The only shades that departed from this blankness were her styled black hair and deep blue eyes. She reminded herself of a vampire. All she needed were some fangs. Maybe that was next she told herself. What were they doing to her, making her into some freak?

She felt odd, or rather, she thought odd. She was strangely at ease. The fear, the anger, the thoughts of escape were fading. She struggled mentally to regain them: this was not right, she told herself. But she found it hard to get up the feelings of dread she had once had. The ones she did manufacture were counterfeit.

Devlin moved into her vision. A girl handed him a container of deep red lipstick, which he methodically applied to her lips.

“You miss dancing, don’t you, doll.” He told her.

“Sure.” She said. She did. She had been pretty good. Her words, they sounded slow, sluggish, as if she were sleepy..

“You gave it all up for tiny dicked husband with lots of cash. Not as much fun, but at least you got security.”

He was right. A dancer’s salary didn’t get you much in New York City. You didn’t get a lot of money unless you were great. She was good, not great, and that is why she married Charles: for security. He hand insisted she give dancing up before they got married. He didn’t want his wife to be a chorus girl. She hated him for that, she would hate him for a lot of things, but she wanted his money.

Something else was wrong, though: Becky knew she should have been angry at Devlin’s comment and yet she said nothing. It was a truth she did not like to hear. When her friends had said what Devlin said; she had told them in no uncertain terms to “fuck off.” She didn’t respond to Devlin in the same way, not because she was afraid to, but because she couldn’t.

Devlin handed the girl the lipstick and was given a cosmetic case with a broader brush. He opened it to reveal a row of three red circles of some claylike substance. He dabbed the brush in the first circle and colored her one of her eyelids red.

“You still want to dance, don’t you, doll.”

“Yes…I want to dance.” She found herself beginning to like Devlin, to trust him. She tried not to, this was the man who had kidnapped her, who was working for her jealous husband. Yet, he knew her, what she had done, wanted to do. He was almost like a friend, a confidant.

“I am going to help you dance again, doll, to become a dancer.” He told her as he painted the other eyelid red.

“To dance…become a dancer.” She repeated. It was an exciting idea; one that would have thrilled Becky. Only now the enthusiasm waned after it sparked, like a passing dream. Her mind was getting duller; it was harder for Becky to think about anything else other than what she was being told.

Devlin put the brush in the compact, dabbing it forcefully. He brought it up to Becky’s cheek to paint a red circle.

“I am going to make you perform, doll.” He told her.

“Make me perform.” Her words were wooden, as if she were an automaton, a robot. Her mind was now shutting down, becoming blank, as if it were as frozen as her body was under Devlin’s control.

Devlin painted another circle on her opposite cheek.

“You will live only to perform.”

“Live…only…to…perform.” Her voice was a soulless monotone; her eyes were vacant, glassy, betraying the vacuousness that lay behind them. She became blank, unfeeling and unthinking.

Devlin closed her eyes with his fingers.

How long she waited in the abyss, she did not know; she no longer cared.

“Open your eyes, doll.”

Becky snapped open her eyes. The colored body stared back at her. Her skin still as white as alabaster, her eyelids and lips were red, two red colored circles on either cheek. She was almost entirely nude. What she was wearing could only be described as ornamental: red frills about the wrists and ankles. Her lips widened, their edges raised, her cheeks contracting as she gave a broad smile.

“Dance, doll!” Devlin commanded.

Becky turned to Devlin without changing her expression. She lifted one leg, jerking it upwards. Then she slid down into a split, a long leg before and after her. Instantly she jolted upwards and performed a pirouette. Her movements were clumsy, as if her limbs were being pulled by unseen strings

Devlin clapped, Louie shouted, "Bravo!” and his girls giggled witlessly.

Becky curtsied.

“Stop!” Devlin commanded.

Becky stood as straight as an arrow, hands by her sides, here eyes closed, the stupid grin on her face still fixed.

“Lets take this show on the road.” Devlin commanded.

Bruce Philips opened the door as soon as he heard Becky’s knock. He was a little bit worried. Her voice on the apartment intercom didn’t sound normal; something was wrong. Maybe Charles had finally found them out and she was coming to tell him the bad news. That meant divorce, trials, lawyers. He wasn’t ready for that. Becky was a nice piece of ass, but not worth that much trouble.

Bruce’s jaw dropped when he saw her: her white naked body, her painted face, her frills.

“Becky! What the hell happened to you?”

Becky barged into the room. She strode in comically with a marionette’s grace. She flailed about in a dance, turning over tables and knocking pictures off the walls.

“Becky!” Bruce cried out reaching out to her, trying to get control of her.

Becky spun around in a pirouette, put her hands on her hips and performed a series of pelvic thrusts.

“For gods sake Becky! What the hell are you doing!”

“Quite a performance, don’t you think?” Came a voice.

Bruce turned to see Devlin standing in the doorway.

“Who the hell are you! What have you done to her?” He commanded.

“She likes to dance, so she’s dancing. I think she needs a partner, don’t you.”

Bruce’s body tensed and went still. He watched helplessly as Louie and his girls entered, Louie raising his eyebrows and licking his lips.

“Oh duckie, you are going to be interesting.” Louie told the frozen Bruce.

The girls removed Bruce’s clothing and lathered his body and shaved the hair from his head, limbs, and chest. Louie ogled Bruce’s substantial penis.

“Oh, can’t I have him for a little bit?” Louie pleaded.

“Keep it in your pants. This is business.” Devlin told him brusquely.

The girls began to spread the white cream over Bruce’s body, covering the entire surface, every pore. Devlin let the girls apply the facial make up, coloring his eyelids and lips red, painting to large red circles on either cheek. Red frills were slipped on his wrists and ankles. On his naked scalp was placed a red skullcap; it fit snugly into place as if it had been designed expressly for him.

Devlin was not as accommodating to Bruce. He kept the man fully paralyzed as he was painted. It was obvious though, that Bruce’s mental faculties were being reduced to that as his lover’s. His eyes glazed and his lips bent into a wide smile.

When the girls had finished, Bruce appeared the male twin of Becky.

“You like her so much, why not be like her.” Devlin told him.

Charles Wilson Case, IV strode down the auditorium’s isle to the man sitting in the front row. Devlin smiled up at him inbetween stuffing his face with mouthfuls of popcorn.

“You’re just in time for the show.”

“Did you do as promised?”

“Sit down and see for yourself.”

Wilson sat down nervously beside Devlin. The lights dimmed. A spotlight pierced the darkness, landing on the stage where a feminine figure appeared. It was Becky, colored as Devlin colored her, dressed as Devlin had dressed her. Music began to wail through a loudspeaker, a jazzy tune in the manner of Gershwin. Becky, cavorted in her jerking fashion, putting a hand on her hip and swaggering her ass as she wandered down the stage. The music picked up as another spotlight went on, capturing Bruce, skipping over to Becky, her still striding like a puppet strumpet, unaware of his presence. Bruce clumsily wrapped his arms around her from being, his hands fixing to her breasts, clamping them, his waist pressing tightly against hers, his dick growing erect as they began to rock together, swaying with some semblance of grace they were otherwise denied. Their faces began to change, their eyelids fluttering, their lips pursing in silent moans of ecstasy. The music followed their rhythm, developing it with sounds that spoke of their actions, filling the hall with the sounds their noiseless mouths could not utter. Both arched back as the music hit a crescendo. Then they fell apart from one another, smiled again, bowed and retreated from the stage.

Devlin clapped.

“Great. What happens to them now?” Case growled impatiently.

“They become part of a traveling sex show. Either as a duo or part of a larger group. I understand its popular in Europe. Fucking foreigners.”

Case smiled slightly. He patted Devlin on the shoulder in appreciation.

“The money has been transferred to your account. Good day Mr. Devlin.”

Case stood from his seat only to find himself frozen in a standing position, unable to move anything aside from his eyes and lips.

“What is this! Devlin! What the hell are you doing!”

“You know, Mr. Case, your wife offered me a lot of money to take you out.”

“Let me go!” Case cried with rising terror.

“You ever see `The Good, The Bad and The Ugly?’” My favorite line from that movie goes like this, `Once I get paid, I always follow the job through.”

Case screamed but only for an instant.

Charles Wilson Case, IV’s motionless body stood in a coffin-sized plastic case, next to that of his wife’s and Bruce Gilbert’s living doll forms. He almost looked like Bruce’s twin, save his face was painted with blue lips, eyelids and cheek circles, the color of his skull cap and frills. There were some subtle and not so subtle differences. Case’s face was fixed in a frown, the inversion of Bruce’s broad grin. Whereas Bruce’s cock was obviously virile, Case’s tiny dick dangled impotently. Two small horns decorated Case’s skull cap.

The proprietor of Wet Dreams Puppeteers and Marionettes shook Devlin’s hand vigorously.

“I can’t thank you enough. These three will make a great addition. The naughty lovers and the cuckold. Always a great story to act out. Comedy and lust. I love it. These are worth their weight in gold. Are you sure you won’t take payment? You always have in the past.”

Devlin shook his head and smiled.

“I’ve made enough money off these three. Come on the show must go on.”

The proprietor gestured to his workers; they loaded the plastic cases on the truck.